Being Broke, Stranded in Paris is Scary as F#ck


My hotel room in Paris.

I wish I could tell you I am a completely independent woman. I really do. But getting lost on the Paris metro system, missing my train to London, and having to grovel for a cheap hotel room in a bad area made me realize that I am a dependent woman. And maybe that’s okay.

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Tea Rose Nostalgia

As I remember his visage, tea roses leap from my stomach.

Medium-regulation haircut, russet, like his stand-still eyes.

Callused, frank hands touch my hands.

Like an evergreen, I shall be cut down, used, by such hands.

They have killed, they have fed, they have hardened, they have cracked, they have endured.

They will nourish, they will hold other hands.

They will tickle his daughter’s tiny pink feet, through her slippers.

They will pray for peace while holding a gun.


My hummingbird heart cannot reflect on such things without picturing his impassive heart-shaped face, his fragile neck and eyes, his resigned smile.

So suddenly soft, sentimental, where one he was harsh.

He would tell me beautiful things, and I would tell him he was crazy.

He’d ask why, and I’d say, “Smell the grassy, earthy air in the spring. Taste the lilac and moss, and stand under the shade of an oak, and then say to me there is a greater beauty.”

In my mind, he is made up of that tree, just as straight and unyielding.

Oh, how I miss him!

Or at least the feeling of those pale pink roses leaping from my stomach

6 Power Moves Girls Need To Pull If They Want A Real Relationship

Originally posted on Thought Catalog:

As a perpetually single 20something, me claiming that dating sucks/is hard/is the worst/makes me want to become a nun isn’t anything monumental. We all know this; It’s a universal truth. And the uphill battle of finding compatible prospects has only become shittier with free dating apps that more or less track targets who are in heat.

But the absolute worst concept to come out of the single world in the last few years, by far, is the “hanging out” epidemic. Our generation of 20somethings has single-handedly taken the concept of traditional dating and whittled it down to a pile of “just hanging out.” We have, somewhat unknowingly, pigeon-holed our dating experiences by all somehow contributing to the livelihood of this terrible concept. So, next time you see a new dating situation going down this dark, casual, unforgiving road, try these tactics to ensure you don’t get stuck “hanging out” ever…

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That Man

I wanted to rub the ointment

into your skin but instead you asked

that man.

That man who never

Dressed your flailing body



Bowed     your hair

That man who preferred


at other young


maybe boys too who knows—

instead of watching over his kin


That man who struck me

while my belly was big as a melon—

Now you wanna hold arms

with that man

like a lady

in the park

Now you’re calling him up

Every month

To buy your



That isn’t right

to trust that man.

You know.


In some years

you’ll be out of bows and braids

Wearing another pretty dress.

And you’ll be going to buy

Your babies


like it’s properly done.

And I’ll be in my chair


Waiting for that man

who’s never gonna touch my kin.

I am sure of that.

Breaking Up With Your Best Friend is Hard



A Platonic Love 

My friend and I were Yin and Yang. Or at least, I thought we were. We would hang out all the time, text or call regularly, and everyone said we were a perfect fit (Chloe+Zoe=Perfect, right?). Unfortunately, our love was not in the stars.

The Signs of Death

I knew we had our differences. I didn’t anticipate them to be such an issue, though. Looking back, we didn’t value the same things or share a similar disposition. I am a very passionate person who puts her family first and admires her elders. She…was not. She’d tell me, “You are too sensitive.” Or she’d say nothing, and act like I had a problem. I’d compliment her constantly. She didn’t even contact me after I had epileptic seizures in August.

The Breaking Point

She insulted my mother. Or at least, my mother felt very insulted, and said she didn’t want to be around  her if she didn’t apologize. I talked to her, she got mad, I asked her to apologize, and she said she might. Then I didn’t hear from her again.

Now What the Hell Do I Do?

Nothing. Make new friends. Delete her number, profiles, etc. It’s over. You had some fun, but if she doesn’t want you…why would you want her?


books on making friends


Need some help breaking up with your friend?

Breaking up with friends, Huffpost edition

WikiHow’s tips to the BFF breakup 

Buzzfeed’s steps to breaking it off with a close friend

The Letter: An Outtake

This is an outtake from the book I’ve been trying to write. 



The day had been long. Susan was tired of this day, where people stared and whispered and mocked. She was exhausted by all the careful planning she had done, and angered when it had fallen through. Now she wanted peace and comfort.

Susan stared at the note in careful concentration. There was no salutation or address.

I can’t tell you how much you mean to me. I won’t try. You are the best thing I had, and nothing can ever change that.

Be back soon!

I love you.


She had long ago memorized every word of every sentence on the paper. No differentiation of tone or hidden meaning of phrase was to be discovered. Today, she simply stared at the strokes of the pen in the letter ‘I’, and ‘l’, and ‘e’. The ‘v’ and ‘u’ were nothing special. But it was the ‘y’ that always captivated her—she could see him clearly in her mind, writing out “I love you” on the flimsy page. The curve of the letter was stained with excess ink. He had stopped. She could feel it.

Susan closed her eyes, and thought of his hands pausing over then-smooth paper.

He was thinking about how he didn’t have to do this. He didn’t have to write this letter. He could go back and scribble it all out. He could burn it in the fire. He could throw it in the trash, and return to his room, kiss his wife and child goodnight, and sleep it all away.

Still, he paused.

He looked down and saw the black ink pooling on the paper, and he finished the ‘y’. The ‘-ou’ accompanied it.

It didn’t matter what the words were or what they meant. She had ceased to care. All that mattered was the jet-black ink stain in the middle of the ‘y’ on that crinkly old paper. This was proof that her father loved her. Maybe still loved her. She didn’t know if he was alive or not, and told herself it was irrelevant.

Some nights though, Susan would open that little drawer in her desk and stare at the paper. Around here, paper was rare. It was fitting that her father should put to pen his last thoughts. Not many did━when someone escaped, you knew why. And you knew where.

Susan rubbed her fingers across the edges and placed the sentiment in the drawer with a soft swoosh. If her mother found it, she would not be happy.